From a shed in Doğanhisar
Merhaba! It’s been about two weeks since the last update, and much too much has happened to give an exhaustive account, but here’s an abridged version :)
The persistent throb in my left knee — a lingering souvenir from a fall during my (thankfully successful) efforts to evade the police on Osmangazi bridge two weeks ago — has finally lifted today, for that I am very grateful. And tonight, an abandoned construction office with a desk (from which I am writing this) becomes a welcome, quiet shelter after a rich, connective day.
By preference and natural fact, this walk is predominantly spent in the rural tapestry of the countries I pass through. Cities are usually more similar than different, it’s in the in-betweens and the flyovers that the tenor of a culture is most clearly heard. Turkey, the largest country of the walk so far, is becoming the archetype of this — it’s expanse has much to say to the wandering boy who is slowly learning to listen.
The path through these hills and villages is paved with an almost overwhelming generosity, each day an unfolding map of landscape and human connection both. In Osmaneli, a man by the name of Alp, carrying two cups of çay clearly destined for another, simply looks at me, smiles, and places one in my hand (fittingly, Alp means hero). Later, Mustafa offers not just lunch but a whirlwind tour of the town on his sputtering motorcycle, while he makes his best effort to mask its petrol fumes with clouds of cigarette smoke puffed over his shoulder. On said tour, standing in the ruins of an old Orthodox church, he mimes the ringing of ancient church bells with so much gusto I feel I can hear them echoing from the walls. These generous encounters, repeated daily, feel like the world giving a nod, affirming this way of moving; though it does make an enjoyable challenge of trying to pay for a çay or a kahve, as someone almost always insists on paying for me.
Mornings have been reliably exquisite, the sun collaborating with mist to cast spectral light over dew-laden forests and fields, but the sun climbs quickly and by mid-morning it is usually sweltering. Thankfully, for these two weeks the wind has been singing the same tune, at the same time; just after midday, when the temperature has me casting around for a siesta shelter, it begins to pick up sticks, and once it’s blowin’ it seems to take fully ten degrees off the day, so I walk on. Some days, as today, a breeze starts early in the day and I imagine the rhythm has been broken, but sure enough, a little after midday that breeze is swallowed by the real wind and I know the rhythm isn’t done yet.
Evenings are almost invariably breathtaking; the temperature drops, a gentle breeze blows, and the sunset is a cocktail of pink and orange. These are my favourite walking hours; when clear skies and a bright moon permit, I stretch them well into the night.
In the midst of it all, after two weeks and five hundred kilometres — another of the many small milestones of this wander — a break. I left my line of footsteps for four perfect days (12th–15th) spent exploring Cappadocia with Mizuki while we were still in approximately the same part of the world, happily happening to coincide with the full moon (Mizuki means beautiful moon). We see the famous fairy chimneys, hike the full length of the beautiful Pigeon and Love valleys, get some climbing in while exploring the old cities carved into the volcanic rock, and watch a hundred hot air balloons make an unreal painting of the sunrise.
The return to the solo path is abrupt — marked by a frantic sprint the full length of the Konya bus station, a fistful of cash at the ready, in order to catch a connecting service to Sultandağı where I left off to visit Cappadocia — yet the rhythm of the road, and the kindness of strangers, quickly reasserts itself. Volkan and his son Mustafa seem to materialize just when I begin to doubt the next portrait. Cevahir and Süleyman rush from their lunch to pour handfuls of fresh almonds into my shirt pockets. An entire village, Çamözü, seems to turn out for an impromptu çay and question the turist session, their warmth a balm.
It’d be a distortion (though not a very large one) to paint every moment as peace and tranquillity. What I’d hoped would be a peaceful camp in the hills above Akşehir turned into dodging late-night revellers who’d brought guns up the mountain for some kind of celebratory target practice, eventually settling down when the police came to break up their fun. Dogs too — wild and domestic — are a frequent intrusion on that tranquillity; the Turkish Mastiff, Kangal, and Akbash are legion, large, and often aggressive here. But these blips are a small part of the whole that serve to deepen my appreciation for all the grace and goodness of all the rest. I imagine in my memories of Turkey it will forever be 6.30pm in early summer, the sun having not yet set, while a breeze ushers me into a village square. There, men wearing thick waistcoats sit around drinking çay, women in beautifully patterned clothes trade gossip, children shout out every combination of the six English words they know at this wandering “turist” who is once again left in awe of that easy hospitality with which he is welcomed day after day.
Much love to you all,
S
